Safeguard
by Simply Strange SS
Summary: He thought he was in for a long journey dismantling Moriaty's network alone, and prepared himself for the nights of loneliness and solitude. However, his elder brother had something else in mind and Sherlock finds himself stuck with a pesky bodyguard he can't seem to shake off. Slow romance build up, proceed with caution. Rated M: Adult themes, language, and suggestions.
1. Chapter One

Sherlock fell against the brick wall of the alley, his bloodied hand staining the red-brown bricks. His knees buckled as he leaned his right shoulder against the sturdy building for support, his other hand gripping onto his abdomen as blood flowed freely against his will. He took an unsure step forward, grunting with effort, before falling down to one knee.

Heavy footsteps stalked closer to him from behind, and the sound of deep disgruntled voices echoed through the chill night air. They spoke in a foreign tongue, something Sherlock could hardly focus on as he attempted to stall the bleeding.

His ragged clothing caught against the roughness of the wall, scraping and tearing slightly. His worn pants were torn here and there, but nowhere too inconvenient against the cold. Sherlock dragged himself forward another shaky step, half crawling against the dirt and blood covered ground.

The subtle sound of light footsteps running from behind pulled at Sherlock's consciousness and he listened intently as the men fell to the ground with a loud thud and a stifled scream. The light footsteps, barely audible, came closer to his kneeling form until a pair of black boots came into his blurry vision.

"Will you accept my assistance now?" a feminine voice asked from above him.

Sherlock groaned. "I can do this on my own," he managed to say in between deep breaths. "You can tell Mycroft I don't need a babysitter."

The woman crouched low, meeting Sherlock at eye-level. Her fiery-red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands hanging loosely around her face. A lightly freckled face and grey-blue eyes stared at Sherlock with annoyance.

"Look," she started, a frown marring her lips. "As much as I'd love to be sipping some hot chocolate in front of my fireplace right now, I can't because I've been assigned to keep you from dying." She poked at his left shoulder, earning a moan of pain from Sherlock in response. "And I believe this to be part of the dying process, no?"

Sherlock moved back from her but bit back a groan when the wound at his abdomen caused greater pain. "I've been doing fine without you," he mumbled through gritted teeth.

The woman's eyes roamed over Sherlock's bent over form, a look of scepticism washing over her. "Right, you're doing a mighty fine job, aren't you?" she said, her voice rising in frustration.

Sherlock strained his neck, struggling to tilt his head back to glare narrowed eyes at the woman in front of him. He frowned visibly. "A patch up, and that's it," he relented.

A sigh formed out from her lips as the woman rolled her eyes. She stood up, taking a quick glance up and down the alleyway, before bending forward and pulling Sherlock up to his feet as gently as possible. "You should really stop trying to run away from me, too," she whispered, grunting as Sherlock leaned over her shoulders and pressed down against her with his weight. "Can't hide from me, you know."

"I assure you," Sherlock half-whispered, "I can."

* * *

The smell of fresh brewed tea roused Sherlock into a state of half-dreariness. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, allowing his mind and body to be assessed. The pain in his abdomen was now dull, almost gone, and his head no longer wished to pound needlessly against his skull. His vision also became clearer as he continued to inhale the smell of tea. The feel of soft silken fabric brushed against his naked body, tempting him with more comforts of sleep.

Lifting his head slightly, he took in the room around him. Soft, thick red covers over a large bed. A small fireplace sitting directly across from him, about less than ten feet away. Dark wood walls surrounded him; no paintings in sight. The red-headed woman sat in a chair to the right of the bed, staring at him with a small grin.

"Made you some tea," she said, gesturing toward the tea by the bedside table with her chin.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, sniffing the air noticeably. "This isn't your place."

The woman raised a single, delicate brow. "Well, _obviously_ ," she said, mimicking Sherlock's tone. "You know where we are, right?"

Sherlock frowned at her before turning back to the ceiling. He slowly pushed himself up to rest against his elbows, the covers drifting down his chest exposing bandaged wounds, once again taking in the room. No paintings. Dust on the mantelpiece. Dresser made of old wood. Bed covers were recently washed. "Ah," he said to himself, "One of the many safehouses you had deemed appropriate."

Sherlock moved to sit up straighter when a pain shot out from his abdomen and he moved to fall back down on the bed. "I suppose you'll be caring for me while I am indisposed," he mused aloud.

The woman scoffed, "I'm not your babysitter. You'll be able to move soon."

"Good," Sherlock replied. "Did you manage to obtain anything useful?"

"I always do," the woman smiled. She rose from her chair and moved toward the dresser. On top were several folders, loose pages neatly sorted within. She came around to the left side of the bed, sitting slowly at it's edge, and faced Sherlock before placing the folders beside him.

She shifted through the folders before picking one from the pile and opening it. "You were right—"

"Of course I was right," Sherlock interjected. "I'm always right."

"Will you let me finish?" the woman said, scowling down at him.

Sherlock scowled back at her. "Fine, continue."

"You were right about him and his many... interests. He's been seen out and about in that district for days at a time. However, because you were taking your precious time 'acquiring information'," she rolled her eyes reflexively, earning another glare from Sherlock. "Another target has arrived and the recruitment date is now only three weeks away."

"Another target," Sherlock repeated. "Perfect. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say."

"Well, it would have been perfect if you hadn't gone to get yourself stabbed in the gut," she poked at his abdomen, rolling her eyes when Sherlock winced. "This will prevent us from getting an invitation in time for the recruitment."

"Us?" Sherlock pushed himself back onto his elbows once more, swatting the woman's offending finger away from him. "I will be fine in a few days, plenty of time to get an invitation."

"Sorry, _you_ ," she said. "Sure, you'll be able to move around in a few days but you won't be able to handle any of the intense physical tests they'll be sure to have. If you die out there, it'll be on my head."

Sherlock pulled back the covers slightly, lifting it enough to look down at his injured abdomen. The bandage work was clean and sufficient for the materials and time she had at her disposal, causing him to hum and nod in acknowledgement of the young woman's work. The cut wasn't deep enough to cause major or permanent damage, but it was enough to deter excessive movement. He dropped the covers, and looked at the woman sitting beside him.

"What was your name again?" he asked, head tilted slightly to the left.

The woman stared at him blankly, eyes unblinking. "Do you honestly just forget, or do you do this just to annoy me?"

"I only keep information that is useful," Sherlock stared back.

"You are very antagonistic, you know," she grumbled, still staring unblinkingly at Sherlock.

"Just honest," he countered.

"I haven't known you long enough to know that," she mused.

"Thankfully," he grinned.

The woman sighed and threw her hands up in defeat. She shifted in her seat, moving to fully face Sherlock with a look of determination. "How about we start over?" she proposed, a genuine smile on her face. "Clean, blank slate?"

"Whatever for?" Sherlock asked, moving to sit up straighter.

She held out her hand, offering a handshake. "Just humour me, will you?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because, like it or not, I'm going to be around for the duration of whatever it is you're doing so we might as well tolerate each other," she replied, hand still hovering near Sherlock.

He looked down at her hand. Steady. Combat trained. Prefers rifles. Calloused. His eyes dragged up toward her face. Determined. Intelligent. Lonely.

Sherlock reached out and shook her hand, face calm and stoic. "Holmes," he said, eyes unblinking. "Sherlock Holmes."

She shook his hand, firm and enthusiastically. "Ayers," she said, mimicking Sherlock's introduction. "Adrian Ayers."


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Just wanting to do a "by the way" thing and say that locations are going to be made-up because I'm bad at geography, so... the names will be made-up (or as made-up as it can be). Also, thanks again for reading! :)

I'd also like to apologize for any grammar/spelling mistakes I might have missed! I try to look it over at least three times before submitting, but things happen and eyes can get tired. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

Adrian stood by the fireplace, watching as its embers shrank slowly into a small dying fire. The light danced against her and across the room, illuminating the area with the soft, warm glow of orange firelight. She shifted through loose sheets of paper, holding the beige folder open in her other hand.

"Are you sure you don't want me doing this instead?" she asked over her shoulder. "He's fond of both men _and_ women, you know—and it's only been a day since you last got stabbed."

Sherlock eased into a large cotton sweater, his arms not rising as much as he would like. The cloth fell around his body effortlessly, hiding the shape of his torso. He sat along the edge of the bed, facing the fireplace, as he wiggled his feet twice and stretched his legs before nodding in approval.

"Yes, but he prefers men _over_ women," he stood up, throwing his arms out for balance as his knees shook for a moment. "And you stick out."

"I stick out?" she turned to Sherlock, a thin brow raised in question.

"Red hair. Grey-blue eyes. You're also smaller than the average populous here, and your pronunciation of the local language is appalling. Not very ordinary, you'll attract attention - and, I'm what he's looking for right now. His current flavour of the month are tall, slender men with dark hair." Sherlock said, as if stating a known fact.

Adrian laughed, turning back to the fire as she continued to skim through the folder. "Well, despite all those terrible things you just mentioned, at least you sort of admitted you were ordinary," she said, still laughing lightly.

"Ordinary _looking_ ," he corrected. "I am far from ordinary."

"Ordinary enough," she countered.

Sherlock stared at the back of her head a moment, Adrian's hair pulled back in that familiar messy ponytail, and frowned at her comment. He huffed and stomped over to the washroom, dragging his feet slightly, as he continued to stretch out the rest of his limbs.

He looked at himself in the mirror, pulling at his face here and there in careful examination. "Not dirty enough," he muttered aloud. Sherlock began to search the room, turning this way and that, opening cupboards only to slam them closed in a rush.

"Where is your makeup kit?" he shouted, still rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

Adrian appeared in the doorway, folder still in hand. "My what?"

"Are you hard of hearing?" he muttered, tossing objects out from the cabinet.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Adrian shook off his question before replying. "What do you want with a makeup kit? Don't you suit his taste already?" she said, a forced calm on her face.

"Must I explain everything? I need to look homeless. Shouldn't you have a makeup kit with you?" he asked, finally stopping to stare at Adrian.

Adrian leaned against the doorway, looking back at Sherlock with a curious stare. "And why should I?"

"You're an agent, you've done undercover. I, too, have read your file. Telling by what little I can pick up on you from looks alone, you've become accustomed to reverting to a blank slate when not under a guise - if you will - as it's become second nature to hide your true self and therefore must have a kit nearby in case of emergencies as well as habit."

"Blank slate, am I?" she grinned. "Well, this isn't an undercover mission."

"Yet you suggested to go undercover just a minute earlier, which implies that you have at least the necessary equipment for disguises,"

"The makeup is hidden under the bed," she said, pointing behind her with her thumb. "3-3-1. Leave the guns alone."

"And get me a coat while you're at it,"

"What for?"

"I'm cold,"

Adrian glared at Sherlock as she shut the folder and tossed it onto the bed behind her. She turned to leave the room, her steps light and barely heard as she neared the door. "Anything else, your lordship?" she called out over her shoulder.

"A switchblade,"

"A switch—" Adrian cut herself off, shaking her head as she opened the door. "A bloody switchblade," she muttered before the door closed behind her.

Sherlock poked his head out from the washroom, his head turning left and right. He took a few steps back into the room, wincing as he held an arm across his stomach. He made his way to the bed, sitting with slow movements, and flipped the folder open.

 _Name: Victor Fraye_

 _Sex: Male_

 _Age: 46_

 _Height: 182 cm_

 _Weight: 73 kg_

 _Features: Black hair, brown eyes, large mole over lip on right side_

Sherlock flipped to the second page, a frown appearing on his lips. A black and white photograph of a young man lying on the ground with garbage scattered around him, everywhere but his face cut and skin peeled back to reveal the muscle underneath. His eyes roamed over the large photo, taking in what he could. Meticulous, steady hands, slow, and shallow cuts.

Carefully, Sherlock pushed the folder further to the centre of the bed, leaving it open to the grotesque photo. He headed towards the closest, peering inside until his eyes spotted a thick, worn down blanket. He lifted his sweater and pulled the bandages off from his torso, making sure to peel them off slowly before tossing them to the floor. Carefully snatching up the blanket into his arms, Sherlock made his way toward the door.

* * *

Adrian returned to the safehouse, opening the door with an effortless push, and was met with the dim light of the slow dying fire. She glanced around quickly, a thick coat and switchblade in hand, as her eyes began to narrow.

"Shit," she cursed under her breath, still scanning the room. Her eyes fell onto the bed, with the open folder then to the discarded bandages on the floor and she cursed again. "That infuriating man!"

* * *

Sherlock pulled at and hugged the dark blanket around his body, shivering from the cold. He stalked through the dark alleyway, crouching low as he neared the bright lights of the street ahead. A pair of tattered socks protected his feet from the dirt covered ground as they shuffled silently forward.

RUBY'S ROULETTE, the bright sign flashed. Sherlock inched closer, biting his lip as another wince attempted to escape. He dragged himself against the wall, making sure to keep himself out from the light. His eyes scanned the scenery before him, taking note of each person he saw.

Several men dressed in black suits stood around the front entrance of the building. Their hands were folded neatly in front of them while a small pistol was held securely by a holster on their right hip. Women of varying size, shape, and colour were being sorted into lines before being led through the front doors. They wore promiscuous clothing despite the colder weather, their high heels clicking against the concrete pavement.

Other men, dressed in fine and expensive clothing, entered the building with the women. A cigar hung loosely either from their grinning mouths or between their fingers. A girl squeaked when a large hand collided against her rear end, a forced smile appearing when the hand gave her a rough squeeze.

To the left of the building, in the dim light of the alleyway, Sherlock watched as a similar group of men with pistols stood in front of a side door - though only three were present there. Tall men—tall and slender men—were shuffled in through the side door. They wore ragged clothing, with dirt blotched across their faces. They scurried through the narrow door, one by one, without a word.

"Predictable," Sherlock whispered, watching the scene carefully.

A black car pulled up in front of the building, coming to a screeching halt. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a fraction as he focused on the man who stepped out from the vehicle. A man, an inch smaller than Sherlock himself, moved away from the vehicle as it drove away. A thick fur coat hung loosely around his large, burly frame. Greasy curls of black sat atop combed back on his head. He turned slightly, revealing a rather large mole resting above his lip. Victor Fraye.

Sherlock scooted forward, careful not to make too much noise. He moved into the light of the building's bright sign, edging further and further away from the darkness of the alley until he sat against the building opposite of RUBY'S ROULETTE. He quickly smeared on whatever substance was on the ground, marring his face with black and brown, before coughing audibly.

Victor Fraye and the men turned sharply at the sound, their eyes falling onto Sherlock's hunched over form. A sickly smile graced Victor's lips as he said something to one of the men. " _Bring him inside_ ," he spoke in foreign words, his tongue coming out to moisten dry lips. " _One more couldn't hurt, no_?"

Two men stepped forward, jogging across the narrow street, and hurriedly lifted Sherlock to his feet. He winced and groaned, half from the pain at his stomach and the other half for his performance.

" _I think he's hurt_ ," the man on his left announced.

" _Take him inside_ ," Victor Fraye repeated, eyes roaming over whatever the blanket didn't hide of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock nodded meekly at the men, smiling sheepishly with half-opened eyes, as they escorted him toward the side door and into the building.

* * *

Men in dirty old clothing sat around on lush and expensive couches. They looked at one another curiously, confused eyes looking into confused eyes. Some fidgeted in their seat while others felt their mouth water at the sight of the buffet table on the west side of the room. All were too afraid to move from their place on the couch.

Sherlock was dumped onto the first free space closest to the door before the men stomped out of the room, an echoing 'click' as the door closed behind them. He glanced around, coming to the same conclusion for each man. Homeless. Runaway.

" _Where are you from_?" he leaned toward the man on his right but kept his eyes on the rest of the room.

The man beside him jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice, looking at him with frightened eyes. " _I come from a small village not too far from here_ ," he replied. " _North_."

" _Did they bring you here, too_?"

" _Some men said they were on the way here and if I came with them I could have food to eat_ , _so I came_. _They said someone wanted to see me_ ," he whispered, eyes turning toward the buffet table. " _But no one has said if we could eat anything or not. We only just got here._ "

The man on the opposite side of Sherlock tapped him gently on the shoulder and leaned forward, to look at both Sherlock and the man he was talking to. " _Do you have any idea where we are_?" he whispered harshly. " _This place belongs to_ Victor Fraye!"

" _Who is that_?" the first man asked, confusion and fear still in his eyes.

" _It is better that you don't know_ ," the other man replied, falling back into his seat. " _In case you get to live_."

" _Then why come_?" the other man asked.

" _Because I had no choice_ ,"

The doors flung open and Victor Fraye stepped into the room with a happy skip, arms held open in welcome. He glanced around the room, a large grin on his face. " _Eat_! _Eat_!" he exclaimed, gesturing toward the table. " _Let's liven up this party_!"

Music began to play, it's loud and rhythmic beat thumping against Sherlock's chest. A faint blue light illuminated the room as the dirt covered men raced to the buffet table. They pushed and shoved, trying to get the best dishes and the most their plate could handle.

Sherlock continued to sit, taking in the sights around him. He looked over Victor carefully. He had shed himself of his coat, showing off his large stature and white three-piece suit. Sherlock hugged the blanket tighter around himself, eyes following Victor as he walked across the room to a couch where a man had also decided to continue sitting.

" _You don't like the food_?" Victor asked, the grin still on his face as the other man cowered beside him. " _You should get some before it's all gone_."

" _I am all right_ ," the man said, his words barely heard over the music, while his eyes stared at his bare feet.

Victor frowned and turned away to catch Sherlock's gaze, causing his grin to return. He stalked over to where Sherlock sat to Sherlock's left. The couch moved under Victor's weight, causing Sherlock to lean toward him slightly.

" _You look at me with such hard eyes_ ," Victor started, his arm falling around Sherlock's shoulders. " _You do not want to eat, either_?"

Sherlock slumped his shoulders. " _Everyone was so quick, I did not think I could get through_ ," he said, his voice soft and gentle. " _I am so hungry, but I don't think there will be any left_."

Victor placed a hand upon Sherlock's upper thigh, rubbing it gently as he looked into Sherlock's face. " _Don't worry_ ," he leaned in close, whispering in Sherlock's ear. " _You may dine with me later_."

" _Really_?" Sherlock turned hopeful eyes toward Victor, a small pout forming on his quivering lips.

Victor lifted his hand away from Sherlock's thigh and gently cupped Sherlock's face, forcing Sherlock to fully turn his head. Victor's eyes scanned Sherlock's face a moment, thumb caressing his cheek in a circular motion.

" _You are a fine looking man_ ," Victor whispered, his hot breath against Sherlock's face. " _Do you have someone?_ "

Sherlock shook his head as best he could while Victor held it in place. He scooted back, trying to gain some space between them, but Victor followed by leaning in closer.

" _I will get the room ready_ ," Victor said suddenly, releasing Sherlock's face and standing from the couch. He turned and walked out the door without another word, allowing Sherlock to let out the breath he had been holding in.

The two men who had been sitting beside Sherlock went back to their seats. " _Are you crazy_?" the one to Sherlock's left said. " _Why would you want to dine with him_?"

Sherlock spoke with the other men in the room, asking them all the same question of where they had come from. Their answers had varied from within the city to having come from across the border only to end up with all their possessions stolen with no way home.

His mind forced pieces together before pulling them apart then trying with a different combination again and again just as the two men dressed in black from earlier came into the room. Without protest, Sherlock allowed them to lead him out and down the hall in silence.

* * *

A large office awaited Sherlock, its bright lights casting no shadows across the room. A large oak desk sat by the far wall opposite the door and a rich blue carpet matched the velvet chair behind it. A loveseat was placed against the east wall, to the right of the oak desk. A table for two stood out in the middle of the room, fresh warm food of roasted chicken and potatoes already placed upon it.

Large bookshelves covered the north and south walls; behind the desk and on either side of the door. A large curtain hung against the west wall, covering a door to another room.

Sherlock stood in the room, alone. The door was closed, locked behind him. He scanned the room first, walking with steady steps. Clean. Well kept. "Definitely his room," he whispered. No hidden cameras. Sherlock quickly shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, throwing it onto the loveseat, and headed for the desk.

He pulled open drawers, making sure to touch the desk with the sleeves of his sweater, carefully looking through the folders and sheets of paper within. A sleek black laptop sat on top of the desk, ignored until Sherlock had gone through all the drawers. He lifted the laptop open, wiping his fingerprints to remove evidence of tampering, and waited until the familiar sound of it booting up reached his ears.

He lightly tapped against the keys, successfully getting the password correct on the first try. "Easy," he said to himself. He resumed searching through the laptop, looking at folders within folders, before pulling out a small USB stick from his pocket. He moved to insert the stick into the laptop when the doorknob rattled.

The door pushed open slowly and Adrian poked her head through the small gap, sending an angry glare toward Sherlock. "There you are!" she hissed, slipping in through the door. "What in the world do you think you're doing?" Her attire was dark, to match herself with the shadows, and form-fitting. Pockets lined her waist and a pistol rested against her right thigh. Her boots were dirty from running, but her breath was steady.

"Dismantling Moriarty's network from the inside," he replied, attaching the USB to the laptop.

"By becoming someone's personal sex doll?" Adrian walked toward Sherlock, picking up a piece of roasted potato to toss into her mouth. She dropped a small pebble into one of the wine glasses, humming as it began to dissolve into the wine. "I mean, sure, sounds like fun."

"What did you do with the bodies?" he asked, eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he copied files onto the USB.

"They're still alive, thank you," Adrian said as she stood behind Sherlock, hovering over his shoulder as she watched the screen. "Your new lover boy will be coming back any minute, by the way."

"Obviously," Sherlock quickly finished copying the files he needed, popping the stick out from the laptop, tossing it to Adrian. "And the bodies?"

Adrian rolled her eyes, stepping back as Sherlock went to grab the blanket to wrap around himself again. "They're fine. They left to get something for Victor Fraye," she smiled, winking at Sherlock as he sat down at the table. "And something for you, too."

Muffled voices neared the door. Adrian and Sherlock turned to one another before Sherlock relaxed his posture back into meek and injured. Adrian quietly dashed behind the curtain, falling silently into the other room.

The door swung open and Victor Fraye swaggered into the room, a large grin on his face as he spotted Sherlock already sitting at the table. " _Did you wait long_?" he asked, taking the the free seat.

Sherlock shook his head shyly. " _No_ , _not long_ ," he replied, poking at the food in front of him. " _I thought I should wait until you arrived before eating_."

" _Such manners_!" Victor laughed. " _Eat_! _Eat_!" He moved quickly to the other chair, setting down a large brown paper bag by his feet. His eyes looked over Sherlock, grinning his approval before leaning back into his seat.

" _Thank you, I—_ " Sherlock jumped, the sudden feel of another's toes brushing up against his leg leaving him speechless. He lowered his eyes, hunching his shoulders forward. " _I appreciate this_."

* * *

The remainder of the meal was had in silence, and ended with Victor and Sherlock sitting side-by-side on the loveseat. Sherlock's blanket had been discarded, with the insistence of Victor, and left to pool around the chair Sherlock had sat in. Victor placed a hand against Sherlock's upper thigh as he regaled him tales of his work and conquests—the wine from earlier having intoxicated him quickly enough.

" _Oh, Nicholas_ ,"—the name Sherlock had given before the wine had been consumed—" _you are quite a fine looking man. I am shocked to hear that you do not have someone_."

Sherlock could only shrug in response, his eyes downcast as he continued to listen.

" _I have had many, you see, far too many to count_ ," Victor continued. " _They all ended terribly, for they all seemed to always want more than I have given_!"

Victor reached for Sherlock's face with his other hand, turning to fully face him. He looked into Sherlock's eyes as he caressed his cheek. " _You will be special_ ," he whispered. " _You will be my favourite_. _I will take you to where I keep all my favourite things_. _Markus doesn't like that I bring my favourites there, but he isn't as important as I am_."

He let his hand drop down and brush against Sherlock's chest, causing Sherlock to wince when Victor lightly pressed against one of his recent wounds. Victor pulled up Sherlock's sweater, not waiting for permission, and lifted it away from Sherlock's body. His eyes roamed over the cuts and scars, hands hovering above gently.

" _He is just a boy_ ," Victor continued to mutter out loud. " _Prone to tantrums when he doesn't get his way_." His eyes examined Sherlock's pale skin with want and desire, his tongue coming out to lick dry lips eagerly. " _His tantrums always ruin my favourite things_ ," he added, his voice just above a whisper.

Victor yawned and pulled back suddenly, lifting his hands away from Sherlock, and stretched them high above his head. He wobbled slightly, then wobbled again before falling back against the couch and snoring loudly.

Sherlock stared at Victor's sleeping face then his eyes turned toward the empty wine glass on the floor by Victor's feet. Picking it up gently, Sherlock brought the wine glass to his nose and inhaled deeply. A frown formed against his lips and deepened into a scowl as his mind registered what had been placed into the drink.

"Infuriating woman," he breathed.

He shot up from the loveseat, standing with his shoulders squared, and marched toward the door behind the curtain. Sherlock flung the curtains to the side and pushed against the loose panel with enough force to have it swing open and almost bounce back.

Adrian blinked up at Sherlock, the light from the other room blinding her momentarily. She stood a few feet from the doorway in a dark room, her eyes looking at Sherlock's state of dress then peering around behind him.

"Have fun?" she asked, a knowing grin on her face. "Or did you suddenly feel 'too hot'?"

"You drugged him," Sherlock accused. "I almost had him."

"Trust me," Adrian shivered, "You don't even _want_ to accidentally go there. Unless you're all for that kind of thing, then power to you."

Sherlock turned away from Adrian, walking further into the dark room, and began to pace in front of her. "He mentioned another location," he muttered quickly, thinking to himself out loud. "Another place where he hoards his favourite things. Somewhere this Markus isn't too fond of others entering."

"What—"

"Shh!" Sherlock cut her off, holding his palm out toward Adrian. She opened her mouth to speak but was cut off again. "It must be somewhere important and secretive, if he's using it as storage for his prized possessions. I need more time."

"Sherlock, I can't just leave you here," Adrian took a step toward Sherlock, waving her hand in front of his face to gain his attention. "I mean, I at least can't leave you here alone."

"I need him to take me there," he continued. "There may be more information to be had."

"Are you listening to me?" Adrian waved her hand again at Sherlock before snapping her fingers twice.

"These men he picked up, there's isn't a definable link to how they've come to be here other than their specific looks and the fact they are all homeless. He doesn't do this often, hence the extravagant party and the overabundance of men here. This is a celebration, for a recent accomplishment," Sherlock continued to mutter his thoughts out loud, pacing and and forth, and ignoring Adrian's attempts to gain his attention. Victor's loud snore pulled at him and he quickly turned to look at Victor's sleeping form. His eyes caught sight of the laptop and he immediately began bringing forth images to display in his mind, scanning them with efficient speed.

"He deals with trafficking, smuggling," Sherlock's words were said quickly, almost in a jumble. "This whole business is based on the ability to move persons from one place to another without detection. Something that would have been a great use to Moriarty. What have they done recently that would deal in bringing someone in or out? Someone important."

Suddenly, Sherlock turned to Adrian with wild and frantic eyes. His face inches away from hers. "Tell me!" he half-shouted. "Who was the second target that arrived recently? Tell me! Quickly!"

"Calm down!" Adrian shouted back, glaring up at Sherlock. "Did you not read the report?"

"Just tell me!"

"Ruben Fontaine, heir to the Fontaine fortune and second-in-command of the France branch," Adrian relaxed, leaning away from Sherlock. "He doesn't usually come out to the field, so we're not sure why he's here."

"I need more time,"

"Sherlock—"

Sherlock shoved his hand back toward Adrian's face, stopping just an inch away from her nose. "I just need to pit these two against each other enough to force them to cut ties," he said, looking over his shoulder at Victor. His eyes fell onto the brown paper bag left alone by the table. "What's in that bag?"

A knock sounded from the office's door. " _Sir_ ," a voice called out. " _The rest of your guests have arrived. They are waiting for you in the games room_."

Adrian pushed Sherlock away as she stepped forward. She cleared her throat and turned to the door. " _Not now_! _Tell them I will come in thirty minutes_!" her voice had transformed, perfectly mimicking Victor's, adding a few wheezes and grunts in between her words.

" _Yes, sir_!"

Sherlock stared at Adrian with amusement and silent praise as she turned and shrugged at him. "Convenient," he said, nodding his head. "I thought your file had been exaggerating, but why the grunts?"

Adrian's eyes widened in surprise for a moment, stumbling back at Sherlock's question. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Oh," Sherlock's face fell into a blank expression. "Love making. Right."

"If you're going to stay in this place then I need to stick around, too," Adrian reached into the belt of small pockets wrapped tightly around her waist. She pulled out a small earpiece, handing it over to Sherlock, after wiping it clean from habit, followed by a small metal ring. "Earpiece, I'm sure you know where to put that. The ring, put it in your mouth around one of your molars for talking."

Sherlock equipped the pieces to his person, his mouth opening wide as he attempted to place the ring on one of the molars.

"It goes as far as five kilometres so we should be all right in case we get separated," Adrian attached the ring and earpiece as well, wiping the excess saliva on her fingers against her pants. "I'll try to gather more information around here while you… do whatever you're going to do."

"You enjoy undercover," Sherlock regarded.

Adrian smirked at Sherlock. She snuck toward the door, pressing her ear against its wooden structure for a moment, before opening it ajar. She smiled with satisfaction before turning toward Sherlock as he stepped back into the room. "It's a fetish," she winked before exiting the room.


End file.
